It’s been the most humbling year of my life. I’ve fallen to literal knees in grief, doubt, repentance, and longing for all the sad things to “come untrue.”
I’ve played and replayed a lot of messages over the last year. Living alone can do that to you.
Alone with my mess, alone with my thoughts, alone with nobody to agree or disagree with my mess and thoughts. Alone with these reverberations. Some of them said by other humans; others connected and penetrated by dots of my own making . . .
“Tom, you’re really selfish.”
“Tom, you’re too emotional.”
“Tom, you suck at letting things go.”
“Tom, you’re hopeless.”
“Tom, you’ll never find what you’re looking for.”
“Tom, you’re a coward.”
“Tom, you’re incompetent.”
“Tom, you’re responsible for everything.”
“Tom, you’ve done nothing.”
“Tom, you have to be perfect.”
“Tom, you’ll always be imperfect.”
Contrast these voices with this document I got at Donald Miller’s Storyline Conference several years ago: “My Identity in Jesus.” It was compiled by Ben Malcolmson of the Seattle Seahawks, and it still hangs over my desk all these years later.
It’s a collection of voices, The Voice, telling me another story.
Despite this visual optimism in my bedroom, the former voices often outweigh the latter. After all, how can Too Emotional Tom, Too Selfish Tom, Too Hopeless Tom simply give way to Bold Beloved Masterpiece Tom?
How does one let go if he sucks at letting go??
To counteract the voices, I can keep busy. I can run, I can CrossFit, I can travel, I can hang out with people, I can go to therapy, I can record podcasts, I can shoot videos, I can write these blogs. I can do stuff, time-killing stuff, happy stuff, productive stuff.
And still the voices return. Following me like alleyway shadows by dusk.
And yet.
If I acknowledge reality and be honest — honest with myself, God, and the dearest friends I could have ever hoped for — something else also follows me in this alley.
And maybe it’s silly.
Maybe it’s stupid.
Maybe it’s ultimately futile.
Maybe it’s really, really Christianey to hang a PDF of identity Bible verses over my desk.
Maybe it’s really, really Christianey to stream Bethel worship music on the winding road back to my lonely apartment.
Maybe it’s a temporary mind game to tell myself that I know whose I am. That I am God’s. That I’m his son. That I’m his ambassador. That I’m his co-laborer. That I’m his wonderfully made, delighted in, sweet aroma.
Me.
Tom.
The selfish emotional awful one.
I tell myself that Jesus’ voice wins over the others, and maybe today he does; tomorrow, though, the other voices will get back in the game.
Fear and shame will throw their punches sooner than I know. They always do.
For too long, I think, I’ve tried to “trick myself” into thinking that fear and shame are beaten. If I just sing in the car loud enough or long enough, or if I just sit day after day in prayer and silence, or if I just keep busy busy busy with writing and errands, then the fear and the shame will get smothered, drowned out, eradicated forever.
That’s what epic retreats and conferences are for, right? Go and get healed and set free and come back forever changed, right?
Maybe instant healing and freedom do happen like that in other contexts, in other humans. I don’t know. I don’t know what that’s like.
Maybe for the rest of us, though, the fight never ends. Maybe the enemy comes back, over and over.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again and again and again.
Maybe we really do have to tell fear and shame to go to hell.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
And again and again and again.
Hoping with all hope that one day … the sad things will come untrue.
